Culture Provisions, [In Three Parts]

Daniel Demarse

the heat’s gone from around her neck,she’s going to live in the meanwhile

as fully departed from life to preparefor that inevitable sort of confines,thinking herself the freer in denying

life, much of her reason too askewby now to figure out, that living’s thewhole vital warmth, everywhere, a fact for most

enough to be the last undoing of their addict tongues posed,so used to readying for the pounce, plunging and suckling on the recentodiferous PCP, wet as shit, hazel-taste, they wanting a happiness a lot

they had been working for for long, Moe the nutupon losing his meth down the gutter, combing through the streetsto find a candidate maybe for a productive dick-suck for a few bags,

so, she said, she wouldslice open his gut, I have a knife,whoever fucking

guy tries to rape me and beat me, anyway, slightly funny to think,but at least she’ll be armed enough to brave the cold to thenearest dumpster, pull out from the garbage a dirty lunch,

I think of her fishing out an escape made of white nullity, it is shelooks out the window of the hovel to pause at that oddment knocking,itchingly, at the sill, a satanic pitchfork prodding motherfucking the

ass of her desire, the little buggered,pitch-black innocence of a smiley escape there, it forces herto go on reviewing and inventing a hope for all

these invisible reassurances of permanencethat one could never feel if sober, that one if so and if boring enoughthen wills to appreciate, maybe makes clearer

demarcations between enjoyment and not, but never feels king,that one is king on the drugs no matter what, and yet thatfleetingness though blessed we are for having it

is a little fragment, a least facsimile of the grand, empty eternity,eternity just removing itself as eternity’s dust, and endless escape byignorance of bounds to time, not their literal removal as the drugs say

to me sometimes, erhm, and all this if so the universe then a memoryand history a perennial buck, nobody to blame but blame put off, shekicking meaning sulking like the stripped tin can cheated by

rust some places, and she runs into memory on the street one daythough and maybe shakes hands, the print she wants in her adesperate need to print, memory tearful memory, yes, she is being

pursued, framed, this life a hoax, a struggle, a bad hand,a mad sin entire, she believing all this on her animalike a bad gangrene, escaping forever

from what ruler had always beendeposed, but then, surprise attack,her zen at stake, she blasts into the atmosphere again

to improve her strategy for attainingpositiveness, and she taste differently theloving blood of moments that cradle her while she’s high,

her in moments as if forever, yet she might will to see as beautifulthe passing, maybe after all the stronger is not the palate of onethe sober mind, unable because unused to it, with the taste of a rush